


Wandering

by Kittenbedtimestories



Category: JSE, jacksepticeye, jse egos - Fandom, pixlpit - Fandom
Genre: No direct violence, Zombie Apocalypse, empty world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23421133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenbedtimestories/pseuds/Kittenbedtimestories
Summary: That’s what he does best; he wanders. He’s not much for deep thought, and trying to plan out where you’re going, trying to find things or do things that take a long time, they take too much of his energy. But wandering? It lets him enjoy the quiet.Robbie encounters some color in his grey world.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Wandering

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on likepuppetsonastring.tumblr.com] I’ve never written Robbie in his own story before, but he’s a sweetheart and I thought I’d give it a try, and also try to explain his name, maybe. Enjoy!

He doesn’t know how he died. All he knows is that one day, he woke up, and he was staring at the open blue sky. He sat up, looked around at the lonely street he was on, stood slowly, and wandered off.  
That’s what he does best; he wanders. He’s not much for deep thought, and trying to plan out where you’re going, trying to find things or do things that take a long time, they take too much of his energy. But wandering? It lets him enjoy the quiet. Sunshine in a forest. An empty highway at night. A beach in the off season.  
Well, he supposed every season was the off season now.

He doesn’t remember who he was before he died. Doesn’t even know if he had a name, not that there’s anyone to call him by it anyway. He supposes he was young; the glances he’s gotten of his reflection make him think twenties, but he could’ve been in his thirties. A little bit of facial hair is eternally stuck at the same length on his face, a short scruffy beard and mustache, and two bushy eyebrows that’ve all turned an ashy brown with death. Pale, grey skin sits tight over a smaller, fairly slim frame. Grey eyes stare at the grey-scale world through a thin white film (it doesn’t affect his vision that much). A striped white and black shirt and black jeans cover him with relative modesty, though they’re ripped and dirtied with who knew what. No shoes. It’s not too bad, but he is easily pleased. Something he very much likes about the way he looks, however, is that he’s got a mop of unruly, electric purple hair on the top of his head. It’s the only bit of bright color in his appearance, and he feels like maybe Living-him would’ve liked that.  
He sometimes wonders who Living-him was. What did he do for a living? He isn’t particularly muscular, or big, so nothing sporty or physical. His clothes are very casual. Had he worked from home? Been off-duty when he died? He doesn’t know.

He discovers he’s in Brighton, and that he can read still (though not very quickly), when he finds a yellowing newspaper on a bench by the pebbly beach. An old copy of the local news, warning about the deadly outbreak of something, and somewhere testing nuclear weapons, and other sad things. He puts it down again and walks away. He’s glad he remembers where Brighton is, and that he has a vague impression of what the city would’ve looked like way back then: a woman’s laugh and the pressure of her hand in his, the sound of cars driving by on his quiet street. He wonders if Living-him had lived here all his life, or if he’d come from somewhere far away.  
He turns slowly toward the sound of something moving, which wasn’t his imagination.

A man is staring at him, standing, frozen, on the other side of the street. He is fairly tall, with short brown hair and wide-open eyes, the blue of which are overwhelmed by the black of his pupils. He has a gun slung over his shoulder, and seems to be considering reaching for it.  
Surely he’s not afraid of him? One dead man against a living man isn’t much of a match; guns have quite a reach, and rigor mortis tends to slow down your running speed significantly.  
He doesn’t see any other option for it. Might as well be polite.  
He waves.  
The man frowns, confused. Stares at him for a few moments longer.

Waves back.

He smiles, glad that his gesture has been returned, and turns to move on down an alley.  
“Wait!”  
He raises his eyebrows and turns back to look at the man, who is now crossing the street toward him cautiously. He stops a few feet away and considers him.  
“Can…can you understand me?”  
It amuses him that he remembers enough to know that this is not an English accent, but is disappointed that he can’t remember what accent exactly that it is.  
“You don’t have to talk,” the man continues as he receives no response from the purple-haired stranger, “you can just…y'know, nod, or shake your head?”  
He thinks for a moment, then nods.  
The man smiles. “Really? Cool.”  
They watch each other for a moment.  
“Do you have a name?”  
He shrugs, slowly.  
“Okay,” the man nods, folding his arms with a smirk. “Well. You don’t look like you’re in a big rush to kill me, which is nice.” He extends a hand. “I’m Robin.”  
He stares at Robin’s hand.  
“You’re…supposed to shake it?”  
Oh.  
He shakes Robin’s hand, and is surprised that he doesn’t flinch away from the cold of his skin or the unnatural stiffness of his movements. He does note that Robin’s easy-going smile quirks slightly at the contact.  
Their hands drop back to their sides, and he decides to try something new.

“R…R…”  
His voice is rusty and crackly from disuse, but apparently still functional, much to both of their surprise. Robin huffs out a laugh.  
“You can talk! Why didn’t you tell me?”  
He frowns slightly and tilts his head.  
“I’m kidding, man, relax,” Robin grins. “Were you trying to say my name?”  
“R..Ro…b…” He nods as he tries again. Robin puts a hand over his heart as if he’s touched by the gesture, then chuckles again as he starts to walk.  
“You wanna come with me? I’ve never met a zom’ that can talk to me. Let’s see if we can’t get your voice to work.”  
“Y…eah.”  
Robin looks so proud of his first proper word that he can’t help but smile back, the muscles in his face tight with the movement.  
“C'mon then, uh…” He falters slightly, and the purple-haired man shrugs. “Well…pick a new name then. I have to call you something.”  
“Ro…b…?”  
“You want me to pick?”  
“Mm…hm…”  
“Hm…” He thinks for a minute, then smirks. “Well, the only thing you seem to be able to pronounce is the first half of my name. So let’s call you Robbie!”  
“R…Ro…b…bie..”  
“See, you’re getting better already!”  
Robin moves off down the street, still laughing and swinging his arms at his sides. Robbie (he likes the ring of it) stumbles after him, listening to him ramble. It’s a nice change from the usual silence.


End file.
